obscure sorrows
by Entr0py
Summary: a one-shot that may or may not have more one-shots added to it. based lightly on The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. mostly focused on maven, mare, and cal. follows canon, so mare/cal and mare/maven are both hinted at. GS spoilers. ( one: nighthawk; two: dead reckoning; three: pâro; four: heartworm; five: the meantime; six: kuebiko )
1. nighthawk

**i have a lot of chapters to write for my other RQ fanfics but i needed to get a feel for writing all the characters again. so here's a mare/cal/maven centered one-shot. (and not too shippy. it's just thought-based.) maybe i'll make this a multi-chapter based off of The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows (prob dead reckoning and** **pâro) but i'm unsure atm. i'm lending GS to a friend atm so i might get a few names wrong, sorry.**

* * *

 _nighthawk_

 _n. a recurring thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt, a looming and shapeless future—that circles high overhead during the day, that pecks at the back of your mind while you try to sleep, that you can successfully ignore for weeks, only to feel its presence hovering outside the window, waiting for you to finish your coffee, passing the time by quietly building a nest._

\- the dictionary of obscure sorrows.

* * *

Cal is uncomfortable at night. Always, and he hates it.

It's fine during the day. It's fine because he sometimes focuses on teaching war strategy to Ada Wallace, who despite being older than him, is ever-so-intrigued and an easy learner. They even do test runs on the Blackrun, and Ada learns to pilot and fly so very quickly that it surprises him. She enjoys learning, and her war plans help him quite often with ideas. It's fine because sometimes he focuses on training the newbloods, especially the children, who are shaky but slowly getting better. He's thankful for his training and natural ability to help people learn and _control_. Other times he reads or pours over maps.

He speaks Maven's name during the day, because that's what you do when you plan wars.

When he speaks Maven's name, he repeats it over and over in his head, 'till the point where it finally ends up losing its meaning. That's what happens when you say something too many times, of course. Then, it's not a word. It's just a sound, a jumble of letters, a strange mixture of vowels and consonants. Nothing worth mentioning. Not at all. He focuses on the war during the day. He tries to pretend there's nothing emotional in it.

He's just a general, after all.

He's just a general. That's all he is. Just a general. A Silver general.

He laughs to himself when he looks back on it at night, because those moments after the dark settles and the stars come out are the only times he can admit the truth to himself. Only then can he admit that he's not a general and he could never be again because he _lost_ that goddamn title with the title of Crown Prince. Nothing could fix that, not even the Scarlet Guard.

Mare doesn't react when he does laugh, probably because he does strange things like this when he's dreaming. He knows when he wakes with his tears on his face and his tears on her cheek, or sometimes when he lets himself cry when neither of them are sleeping, and she doesn't react much. Maybe, just maybe, in those moments, her lips twitch downwards ( _he looks at them a lot, anyway_ ) or maybe she shivers when tears hit her cheek, or maybe after when he silences the slightest of noises she presses herself just a little closer to him under the thin covers.

He hates that after dusk has fallen and he's tucked into bed with Mare, the moment the name _Maven_ pops up in his head, so does the word _brother_. He hates it. It's idiotic, because he knows that the younger, brotherly prince who played board games with him as the two laughed together is long gone.

Long gone. Long gone. He repeats the words to himself as he lies in bed with Mare sleeping softly next to him. _Long gone._

Hah, like that boy was ever there in the first place.

Cal considers himself a poor boy with no siblings and no parents.

* * *

Unlike Cal, she thinks of _him_ whenever possible.

Mare hates thinking of him; Mare hates thinking of him because it's inevitable.

She's a bad teacher, she's a bad martyr, she's a bad leader, she's a bad friend, she's bad family. Bad family, like Maven was.

In any case, she grasps at straws when conversations arise. She focuses on touches and light brushes of skin against skin or takes joy in the small moments when Cal, her rock, grins at her, murmuring charming things in her ear like "that's my girl." She forces laughs at Kilorn's stupid jokes, hoping they'll come genuinely again. But Cal has to spend time training, and Kilorn has to spend time hunting, and Farley and Shade are always off away in some corner of the area together.

She hates it, she despises it, because when she is alone, she always thinks of the former shadowed prince and the King of Norta, Flame of the North, Maven Calore.

Of course, it's worse at night.

When Cal thrashes or cries silently in his sleep next to her, her fingers tighten on the thin paper that is the punishment in her hands. She wants to turn and comfort him, to slip her hands around his, but she knows that both of them will forever be alone in a crowded room. Her eyes rake over the sharp words on the paper instead. _Until we meet again. Tell him it will be his last. Surrender..._ And she cringes, sure he feels it, sure wherever the hell he is King Maven Calore is laughing to himself because his words affect her so. Where did he go? Where did the boy she knew go?

 _Little quiet girl._

She realizes, sometimes, that she and Maven were never really friends. They were acquaintances, hesitant allies that looked at each other for perhaps a second too long. But that was all, until his brother messed up, and suddenly she and Maven made the strange leap from _acquaintances_ to _lovers_. She felt then like he'd understood her, like he was for the cause, but she was ever so suspicious, not so with Cal. And suddenly—ever so suddenly—Cal'd messed up, and Maven had swept all her hesitance and distrust away with a simple kiss and a few empty promises.

Disgusting. She hates herself when she looks back at it.

She doesn't want to give in, at least, that's what she thinks. Part of her sobs (not out loud) at the name, thinking of burns and sharp pains in her heart and her body, thinking of brands burned and carved on her collarbone. Part of her ignores the king that exists, thinks back to the lover she once knew, the lover who didn't exist, the dear lover Prince Maven Calore who died the same moment Mareena Titanos and Crown Prince Tiberias Calore the Seventh did.

She folds the letter up, sticking it into her pocket, and shifts closer to Cal, who shivers in his sleep. She feels so horribly dirty for thinking these things with the boy she's kissed thrice now lying next to her.


	2. dead reckoning

**important a/n before the chapter starts;**

 **maven is not very nice to mare here.** **this is (spoilers for gs)post-shade's death and maven hurts her and does things to her without permission (it's not too extreme, but he's still horrible to her) through this whole story and their relationship here is just very toxic so if that makes you uncomfortable please don't read. my headcanons of her feelings for him are fleshed out further there and maybe through other chapters though as well as how she feels about cal so idk do what you want. please r &r or whatever idk you don't have to *rolls away**

* * *

 _dead reckoning_

 _n. to find yourself bothered by someone's death more than you would have expected, as if you assumed they would always be part of the landscape, like a lighthouse you could pass by for years until the night it suddenly goes dark, leaving you with one less landmark to navigate by—still able to find your bearings, but feeling all that much more adrift._

\- the dictionary of obscure sorrows.

* * *

When she thinks of her brother, Shade, she wonders how death feels. The lightning girl, left alone because she (and everyone else) finds herself to blame, sits by herself and ponders about things that don't really matter, because that's what she's always done. People see it as a childish question, but it's truly something someone—Mare, rather—would want to know. How _does_ it feel to die? Does it depend on how? Is it the snap of a finger, the flip of a switch, like you die and then _poof_ —you're gone. Or is it excruciating in those few moments between consciousness and death, pain, agony?

Mare doesn't want to know, though at the same time she really does. What _did_ she end up putting Shade through? Another weight of guilt to carry upon her shoulders? All the same, she sees Farley and Bree and Tramy and Cal, glaring at her through slitted eyes and accusing expressions. She decides that if she ever finds how death feels, she won't tell them. She exhales slowly, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Suddenly, the abandoned hallway she is sitting in feels unnecessarily hot, though she is wearing thin scraps of clothing and the hallway is made almost entirely of metal.

Metal. Metal is Ptolemus, metal is Evangeline. Metal is cold, shimmers softly, and is certainly deadly if you sharpen it enough.

Shade would know.

If he wasn't dead.

 _I don't know if you love anyone at all._

It's sharp and reprimanding and she wants to scream.

"Shut up, Cal," she whispers to the corridor, as if anything will happen.

He's not here to listen to her, not anymore. She'd be okay with that—no, she _is_ okay with that, because Cal certainly had no right to say the things he'd said, and certainly not so soon after Shade's death; his _real_ death.

For once, Mare misses the Silvers and their constant need for perfection. There is no room for emotion in the court. Shade's death, or at least what she'd thought was, had to be pushed away for the public eye. In the Guard, that behavior is shamed. You must grieve and you must feel. Otherwise you're heartless and soulless and a monster and a lot of other adjectives Mare thinks describe herself rather well.

Mare finds herself alone too often.

It's blame and unwillingness to confront anything (she doesn't admit that to herself, though, not at all) that keeps her by herself. She's too afraid to bother, too offended to bring up the subject to Cal and try to suddenly mend, too cold in the deepest parts of her heart and her bones to try and explain everything to Bree and Tramy and Gisa and Mom and Dad and Farley and everyone who looks at her and thinks to themselves, _That's the reason Shade Barrow is dead._

What a pain. What a real pain.

She and Shade hadn't even interacted much after she had seen for real that he was alive, she realizes suddenly, when she's become very sure that nothing could possibly make her feel worse. No, Mare had been determined to be as alone as possible, and Shade to get as close to Farley as he could. And so there were no gentle sibling interactions like she'd hoped for, only Shade throwing himself in front of her and then _dead_.

He was like the toy the child didn't play with. They left it alone, but _cried_ when you took it away.

* * *

Mare is _not_ dead, in fact, but to Cal she might as well be.

He just wishes that they'd spoken, and though he's certain that when they'd fallen there had been a moment where he'd apologized and she'd forgiven him, they'd never said it out loud. It was just a moment. It was just a split second.

And it's a dull ache in his chest, the only thing he can focus on, because without Mare there suddenly there's no worth in planning or looking at maps or training. He can't think and he can't focus, but good god, does he hate it. He had been looking so pointedly in the other direction; but she was always hovering in the corner of his view somewhere. It's strange looking around and seeing she's gone or not hearing her ideas, stupid or pointless or manipulative as they are.

He lays in bed, naturally laying on the left side, because Mare always tucks herself into the right. He remembers, suddenly, that Mare is gone, and that the side of the bed she usually lays on is unusually cold, but he can't bring himself to roll over.

Kilorn is as distraught as him. Considering how both of them had been pulling away from Mare before this, he knows both of them are surprised by that.

(A lot more than they should've been, realistically.)

"How are you handling?" Kilorn asks him one day. He's not sure what day it is, because they all seem to blur together nowadays. That's a shame. Kilorn's words are not _nice_ , they're just sharp, but then again, neither of them have many other options now that their anchor (also known as Mare, unstable as she was, ironically) has left them. It's hard to be nice with such a loss. He'd known even before Mare had gone.

"How are _you_?" Cal challenges, throwing his words back at him in spite and setting his jaw when Kilorn looks taken aback. Both of the boys feel like they have lost so much more than the other. And there's the fact that Cal really doesn't want to answer, not really.

It's stupid to be fighting. Stupid to be fighting with Mare gone.

For a moment, Cal and Kilorn stare at each other. Finally, the blond boy huffs, tearing his eyes away from Cal. "Have you been doing anything?" he bites out.

Cal cringes. He hates to admit that he hasn't. He wishes that he'd actually been doing something, but Mare giving herself up has shaken him to the core. "I think the answer is obvious," he says swiftly, refusing to meet the other boy's eyes.

Of course, Fisher Boy laughs, deft and yet so quickly fading, so cold at the same time. The loss of Mare has hit the both of them harder than it should have for her being a shaky, murderous (and so heartrendingly _enchanting_ , how horrid) lightning girl.

"So the answer is _no_?" Kilorn mocks.

Cal wants to punch him, but knows that they're both desperate at this point.

So he doesn't.

* * *

"Something on your mind, my pet?"

Mare cringes at the nickname, because it's what she is. His _pet_.

She hates herself yet again. The second time since _Shade._

"No," she murmurs, and hates how feeble her voice sounds when she speaks. She gasps faintly when he nips her neck ( _she'd told him to stop that, dammit, but of course, **she** was the pet here_ ) and grinds her teeth when he laughs against her, his arms tightening around her waist. His laugh is still cold and still mocking, and she shivers against him, and he presses another kiss against her neck, because he assumes she shivered for another reason.

(His lips are cold and foreign. She doesn't recognize him anymore. Not like she did in the first place.)

"Don't lie to me, Mare," Maven says, his voice deceivingly soft, pulling her closer.

"I'm not lying to you." She leans away from him, out of his touch, trying to separate the two. Maven shifts his hand to her wrist, tightening as the temperature rises. Mare cringes, squirming and yanking her arm away. He raises his eyebrow at her as she rubs where the burns are already forming, and shakes his head, a hand stroking up and down her side, _burning_ and too _slow_. He grins with a sharp, cold air.

"You are, though, Mare." He drops his arm back around her, letting the temperature die down. She wishes he'd just decide on how cruel he wants to be.

She squirms, gritting her teeth and trying to pretend that he hasn't had any effect on her in the—weeks? months?—weeks, she assumes, that Maven has had her as a pet. Though he has, and how horrible it is.

She is frail and fragile and she feels she would rather be dead than here—but rather here than with the Guard. After all, she keeps more people safe this way. Cal, Kilorn, her family, Farley, the legions of young Red children ready to be sacrificed like pigs.

But she could not protect Shade—Shade, oh Shade; the source of her whole dilemma in the first place.

"You wouldn't understand," she finally says. She doubts Maven feels any love for his brother— no, at this point, she's absolutely certain the boy could care less whether his brother, Cal, lives or dies. In fact, he probably would prefer it if Cal was dead.

Maven looks at her, and shrugs, the motion strangely casual and _almost_ comforting ( _almost_ , for it would be much more comforting if it was the Maven she'd thought she'd known), then smiles, but it's less strangled and cruel than usual.

"I understand a lot more than you may think."

She doesn't realize that he'd slapped her until the burn stings on her cheek, bringing her back to reality with a crash.

"So you should _probably tell me._ "

It's as vicious as she remembers.

She's just about given up, but she knows that giving up only pleases Maven Calore, King of Norta, Flame of the North.


	3. pâro

**thank you for your kind reviews uwu**

 **i am sorry for this being late. mavey is a hard character to write well tbh**

* * *

 _pâro_

 _n. the feeling that no matter what you do is always somehow wrong—that any attempt to make your way comfortably through the world will only end up crossing some invisible taboo—as if there's some obvious way forward that everybody else can see but you, each of them leaning back in their chair and calling out helpfully, colder, colder, colder._

\- the dictionary of obscure sorrows.

* * *

Maven Calore was a useless child.

He remembers, nowadays, when he was young. The boys— _always boys, of course, the girls knew better than to bother him; it'd ruin their chances with Cal_ _—_ from House Iral and House Samos who mocked him. _Useless. The King and Cal don't need you. Useless prince._

He always hung around Cal, see, fluttering and clinging to him like his shadow (even though **flames** do not have **shadows** , but that was not the point) and so eventually Cal would come in and stand up for him and beat up those boys because he, of course, was much stronger than them. Cal would laugh and beckon to Maven, saying that Father—disgusting, ew, _Father_ —would be mad if they were late.

"Yeah, you're right," Maven had muttered, trying his hardest not to look at Cal, because suddenly he'd felt very inadequate compared to his older brother.

But that wasn't what he had _really_ wanted to say. No, how he longed to tell Cal that Father would not care if Cal were days late. The boy was the only thing Father seemed to actually care about. If Maven were even a second off, it'd be a different story, which the young teen knew ever so well. There were many of the days when he arrived just a moment off time and his father had snapped with a harsh rebuke. Mother glared viciously at the king while he made his ramble (Maven wasn't really listening, though—all he heard was Father insulting him, but he got that enough, didn't he?)

Mother would always smile and whisper in his head, _You'd be a much better king than either of them, Maven._

 _I couldn't be king,_ Maven thought each time, _Cal is destined to be king, and I couldn't be king if **he** is._

Elara's smile would turn secretive, but she would not respond.

Of course, those were the moments when Cal would show up, even later than him, and Tiberias's speech would be two times shorter than it was with Maven even though Cal did this much more often and had much more responsibility.

"Come on, Mavey," Cal had said eagerly, snatching him away from his memories.

He nodded without answering out loud, because he knew that the type of words that he really wanted to say were not things that you say to your brother.

Cal had met his brother's eyes, frowning. "You don't _believe_ what they said, do you, Mavey?"

"No." Maven would always shake his head whenever Cal would say something similar to that. "I'm fine, Cal. I'm all right."

He _did_ believe what they said, though.

His mother had always studied him over her cup at dinner after Cal and Maven returned from whatever they were doing. He could feel her pricking at his mind, but after a while, he'd desensitized himself to it. His mother had only ever wanted what was best for him, and she knew that however good of an actor he was, he was not very good at discussing his real feelings. Besides, she was his _mother_. She loved him dearly, unlike his father. She'd never do anything to harm him.

(Not intentionally.)

 _You'll make them eat their words, darling._ She'd muttered in his head, after Cal and his Father had started leaving ahead of them.

 _What do you mean?_ he'd thought back.

Elara had laughed. _In time, Maven._ She patted him on the shoulder, a motherly gesture. _In time._

She'd walked ahead of him. Maven frowned to himself, then, and followed her after a second or two. He'd always wondered, since then, why she hadn't spoken aloud.

* * *

Maven first looks upon Mare with disgusted eyes, and she never forgives him for it. He can't blame himself; she's supposed to be his bride, and yet she is overly thin with dark circles under her eyes (like _his_ : they match!) and her deep brown hair is ratty and tangled. Still, since he has to put up with her company for at least a month or two, he tries to look for the best in her aesthetically. He can't find much.

She bites at him during the dinner, drinking far too much champagne and getting far too angry.

Mare is hesitant to befriend him, despite how easily she swoons and falls into Cal's arms. He talks to her occasionally, not enough to seem desperate, but casual. He watches with disguised, hungry eyes as she slowly begins to let down her walls, relieved at someone with no security, relieved for some stumbling, blushing boy over the usual cold grace of Silvers, thankful for some 'honesty' in the world built on lies.

She hugs him one night. He tenses, but she smells strongly of vanilla and her hair tickles in a pleasant way. He relaxes, pressing himself just a little more against her, his stomach lurching in a pleasant way. It's more intimate than he's ever been with any girl before, and for a split second he wishes this moment would last a long time. He inwardly hits himself. A mentality like that could get him slaughtered.

...Never the less, he finds himself enjoying the moments she spends looking only at him. A guilty pleasure.

He sneaks into the camera rooms on the night shift when he knows the guards have left for a moment, watches Cal and Mare spin and twirl and kiss. His stomach lurches uncomfortably, but he ignores it, instead focusing on the new light of determination in his stomach. If Cal has her...

...what would he be like if he _lost_ her?

He taps his fingers on the dashboard, and grins, Cheshire Cat-like in nature. His mother would be proud of him if she saw. Then again, she is proud of him already. She knows that he is doing excellently with executing this plan.

Mare looks pretty during the ball. Beautiful is an all-too elegant word, and it does not fit the rough way she looks attractive. When she's not deadly thin, he can notice things like that her freshly cut brown hair is silky and straight, that her eyelashes are dark and thick, that she's actually finely curvy when she's not starved and bone-thin. Yet she's also constantly frowning, her hands clamp tightly into things like fists, and her eyes are dark and dangerous. When she smiles ( _genuinely_ ), it's more like a feral flash of teeth. He compliments her with _beautiful_ anyway, because he's not sure what word to use to describe a strange mix of wildness and prettiness that she is. He tries not to pay attention too much, anyway. He still does.

On the boat, he's not _scared_ for her. No, that'd be silly! His mother will sweep it under the rug, as she always does, bless her. Still, he meets her eyes, and for a second, they're both anxious, and he hates it, because _no_ , he shouldn't be _feeling this,_ not for her, not for her, not _her_ —!

He takes her hands in his, thankful he's not breathing heavy, though he feels like he needs to hyperventilate. This was a necessary part of the plan, and yet his eyes flicker between their interlocked hands and her lips, and suddenly it's not about the plan, it's about how it will feel with her lips against his, how she would feel in his embrace again, how much it'd be a slap in the face to _his brother_.

He relishes in the feel of her lips on his, and he can't describe it; she tastes like a perfect mix of chocolate and vanilla, and he feels so _dominant_ with his arms wrapped so tightly around her, and he adores how it feels to be in control for once—and then, of course, his idiotic brother interrupts it, Mare pulling away faster than he would've thought possible. He feels another rush of adrenaline watching his defeated brother—is this how it feels to _win_ , to be _loved_ , to be _in control_? But he's hesitant when he notices the guilt in Mare's eyes as she gazes after his bent-backed brother. He tries to ignore it.

* * *

The crown slips on his head, cold metal that hardly fits. Mother breathes heavily next to him, hands curling into fists. Maven glances at the scrambling Silvers, panic-induced running and horribly frightened as opposed to their usual cold behavior. The Silver soldiers halt by the crevice where Cal and Mare had fallen, scrambling and squawking. Maven rolls his eyes and pulls back.

"They're gone, aren't they, Maven?"

Sonya Iral casts him a frightened look, hovering one hand over her tanned skin. Maven meets his mother's eyes. They nod together.

"I doubt it," Maven murmurs, shaking his head sharply. Sonya bites her lip, though her pupils dilate. She's trying to hide her fear, unsuccessfully, he might add. "Get going. Take guards with you. Get back with your house."

Sonya nods shakily, and her grandmother, Aya, follows her lazily. When all of the other Silvers have left, Maven glances back out over the now empty arena. It shouldn't have been possible—how they could have pulled it off, he's not sure, but he _knows_ they're not dead. He can feel it, like a pull in his gut. The new king raises an eyebrow at Elara in silent question. She nods, knowing without even looking what he's asking her.

Part of him is grateful that they are alive—no, not _they_ , Mare. After all... he couldn't have a Red queen, but certainly...

He shakes his head. He's getting too far ahead of himself.

"They're in Naercey." It's a short, simple thing. "We can attack them there. It won't be a surprise, but they'll be making their escape from there. Their Undertrain will take a few hours to get there, if we're lucky." _We are lucky,_ his mother murmurs in his head. He nods in silent agreement. "We need to stop them."

Elara laughs softly. "You'll make a good king, my son," she chimes.

Maven smiles.


	4. heartworm

**wow i'm not dead?**

 **also yes i believe thomas is real. i mean i hope he is. and if not then he's real here, fuck you canon**

* * *

 _heartworm_

 _n. a relationship or friendship that you can't get out of your head, which you thought had faded long ago but is still somehow alive and unfinished, like an abandoned campsite whose smoldering embers still have the power to start a forest fire._

\- the dictionary of obscure sorrows.

* * *

Thomas.

He tips his head up, wiping at the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and meets the boy's eyes. Thomas? he asks again, his voice so quiet and so soft, _too_ quiet and soft. He scolds himself for it. Father would hate him for his quiet. Cal would look away and say nothing because he has no care to. Neither of them are here now, but he has to train himself anyway, or else he'll get trampled.

"Yeah, Thomas," the boy says. Though 'boy' isn't really the best word to describe him. Maven is just fourteen, and the boy is much taller than him - maybe just a little under six foot - but he still has slightly boyish features; he's probably seventeen or eighteen. "That's me. 'n what about you?" he continues. His voice has a slight accent, the smallest, littlest drop in his _r_ s. He is probably from Harbor Bay, or nearby there, because his accent isn't so thick, Maven guesses, though he's never been to Harbor Bay so he probably couldn't say anything about that.

He's probably been staring too long. "Maven," he tells Thomas.

Thomas blinks at him and then grins, rather crooked. He's missing a tooth in the back, but besides that, his teeth seem shockingly fine. "Pleasure," is all he says, and Maven nods back. It's _weird_ how Reds can converse in so few words. _It's **so** nice to meet you, _ Silvers say. _Pleasure,_ is all the Reds need. His bunk creaks and he lifts his fist to his mouth, coughing into it. Thomas looks at him strangely, as if coughing into your fist isn't too common around here. Then again, Maven bets that it probably isn't. Silver habits die hard, and out here Reds have no reason to be concerned with being polite.

"You're down with somethin', huh?" Thomas asks. They're the only two in the medical tent, surprisingly, though there _are_ a lot of medical tents they could go to. 'Down with something' is common term for being sick; everyone knows that.

Maven coughs again before he can stop himself. It racks the smallest shiver through him. "Goes without saying," he mumbles, avoiding Thomas's eyes. He doesn't want to be weak at all. _This is a Red, who **cares** , _a tiny voice inside reminds him, but for some reason their blood color doesn't seem to matter now. "What's with you?"

He tilts his head at Maven. His skin is light brown paled by blood loss, his hair a darker chestnut. "Isn't it obvious?" he asks, and he lifts his leg to show a deep gash running from the top of his calf to right above his ankle. Thomas is bandaging it by himself, no healer to help him, and his shirt is ripped with more bloody wounds. Red stains him all over now that Maven's actually, really _looking_ at him. "Got, erm, some... nasty cuts. Thrown in here because, it, uh, might be infected." Maven cringes; there's some puss too, now that Thomas's brought it up.

"Hope you get better, man," Thomas adds. He wraps bandages around his leg wound and pulls, tightening them. Maven watches the movements, surprisingly fluid for someone operating on themselves. For a moment he doesn't even realize that Thomas spoke, but he almost jumps when he does, looking awfully surprised. Maven is excellent at picking out liars, yet Thomas seems horribly genuine, too genuine. It makes him sick to his stomach. He doesn't deserve to be spoken to so kindly, not by a boy bleeding and infected. Almost as soon as he thinks the words he wants to take them back - weakness like that could get him _killed_.

"Thanks," says Maven quietly, the tiny little part of him that just wants a friend taking over. "You too." He's surprised by the genuineness in his own voice, surprised by the smile he flashes in Thomas's direction.

The Red boy smiles a little, green eyes directed to the ground.

* * *

"We are ever so sorry for the inconvenience, Your Majesty." The title brings a rush of power and joy to him that he'd been missing while he was ill. "But your vitals have almost recovered completely. You are doing very well."

Maven nods at her. He has no reason to thank her; it's her _job_ to heal.

"In all probability, you'll be released tomorrow or the day after," the doctor guesses, tapping her clipboard nervously. "But we'd like to run a few more tests, just to make sure. You are the prince, and your safety is our highest concern." Maven nods again at her, too weak to smile, and she grins instead before hurrying off. While he's mostly content with his outcome, the small part of him that talked to Thomas hisses, _What about the others? The weak of all blood types? Why don't you care about them?_ He grimaces to himself. He's been trying to silence that little voice for so long, but around the dead and the dying and Thomas it seems to not want to quell itself.

Speaking of Thomas, he hasn't seen him since yesterday. It's not really worrying but it's become kind of a daily routine for him to talk to one of his only friends, like he plays chess with Cal every night (though he hasn't seen Cal in forever; he knows his brother is on the front, but a while without Cal has been kind of a nice reprieve). Maven had tried not to look when the doctors examined the infected wound, and he tried not to hear either, so he didn't know then and doesn't now.

He dozes. The fever broke a while ago.

"Maven." The tap of a finger on his shoulder. "Hey, you awake?"

He blinks blearily. Perhaps he slept for longer than he thought.

He looks up. A surge of relief fills him. _It's Thomas,_ he thinks to himself, almost excited to see his friend again. "Hi, Thomas," he says. His eyes first notice the other's crooked stance, then trail to Thomas's hands, which are clutching crutches. "Are you doing better?" The leg with the biggest gash is all bandaged up, and Maven can notice a few white wraps on his side, too. Seems like he's been all taken care of. Might as well ask anyway.

Thomas nods. "Sure am," he says, grinning crookedly again, so excited about it. "There was an infection, but they got rid of it. Told me to wear bandages most of the time. They had a lot of spare crutches, and I was limping, so they gave me some." There's a moment of silence, and Maven opens his mouth to speak, but Thomas interrupts him with, "You look better. Has the fever broken?"

Maven nods. "Yeah," he mutters. "Says they'll probably let me leave tomorrow." He's not sure when his tone became so casual. He assumes that it's the sickness and he can't be bothered to speak formally; that's it. "Just gotta run some checkups."

Thomas frowns, as if the idea of checkups is confusing to him. Then he looks away. "Where will you go then?" Thomas asks.

"What do you mean?" Maven says.

"We might not be able to see each other again." Thomas looks so upset.

 _That's the way war is,_ a large part of Maven wants to say, but a deep sadness begins in that very little part of him and rises, swallows up all his other parts, fills his whole with deep dark sorrow at the fact that he's losing a friend.

* * *

Deep dark sorrow

(he's bleeding he's _bleeding_ )

at the fact that he's losing a friend.

(he can't get up)

"Let me GO!" he screams and he thrashes and cries, kicking endlessly at the guard behind him, and when they fall more guards surround him, pulling on his arms, holding him down, preventing him from going further. "Thomas," he wheezes, trying to kick and failing. "THOMAS!" he cries again, so loud and so painful and it hurts him, aches him to the core. "N-No, please," he whimpers, and the bang of the gun rings again and Thomas falls again. "Let me h-h-HELP!"

"It's not worth it, kid," the guard says roughly, and he sobs and sobs.

There's blood everywhere, that same stupid red that once stained the bandages Thomas wrapped around his own leg with no Silver to help him.

* * *

"It's time to say goodbye, Maven," his mother says.

For a split second he can't rearrange his features

if he squints enough at Mare, she looks like an old friend he lost long ago...

 _(What about Thomas, why Thomas, you don't need to bring him up to me.)_

* * *

 **also yes i totally ship thomas and maven nobody is fucking stopping me. although its just platonic here**


	5. the meantime

**chapters may be coming out a bit slower, as i'm trying to pull off one or two chapters of Beyond A Reasonable Doubt (which i just started updating again, and you should maybe check it out for me /bricked for self promo) before doing one of these. also, the format has been changing a little; if i can squeeze in two perspectives, then i will, but for character-focused chapters i may keep to just one pov.**

 **(also this got really long oops)**

* * *

 _the meantime_

 _n. the moment of realization that your quintessential future self isn't ever going to show up, which forces the role to fall upon the understudy, the gawky kid for whom nothing is easy, who spent years mouthing their lines in the wings before being shoved into the glare of your life, which is already well into its second act._

\- the dictionary of obscure sorrows.

* * *

Her hands tremble, arms dangling, wrapped in chains. She leans her head against the wall, idly tapping fingers with her eyes drawn downwards to her hands, which seem to be moving even though she doesn't remember ever making them. There's a window, wide and gaping, showing off the gentle night sky and the glowing stars. Wind rustles through the trees. It's an illusion of freedom, she knows, because not even her lightning could shatter that window and let her escape - it's diamondglass, too strong for her to break but so _beautiful_. Mare bets that it's the point, another stupid metaphor for her to stare at all day until she finally gets it, until her thoughts are nothing but purple prose and weakness.

She's gone numb. She hasn't used her lightning in so long. And the burns on her arms and her collarbone don't hurt anymore. The _click-clicks_ in her head that sound up occasionally don't really pain her as much as they used to. It doesn't really matter what clothing she wears or whether or not she's in chains at all. She sits, absorbing what information she can like a sponge, storing it away for later use shall a _later_ ever come. (Which it probably won't.)

But she doesn't really _trust_ anything she hears. Maven knows she's listening, and all he speaks about around her room are the Guard's defeats and Red casualties. Either that or the Reds are just losing so badly. Mare doesn't want to think about the latter.

Mare doesn't want to admit that she almost enjoys his company. She doesn't really know where her room is, because she's never let out that often, and Silvers don't pass by often without the boy-king (unless they're very quiet, which they could be), so her only real companion is Maven. That's the point, she doesn't doubt, for her to be indoctrinated to his presence, for her to long for the nights when he comes in and sits by her side. And it's _working_ ; a human needs social interaction to keep sane after all, if she's even human anymore. But she really doesn't want to admit that either.

He doesn't speak on the nights he visits, which is good. Maven's voice grates against her ears like nails on a chalkboard, because she can't pretend that the churning in her stomach is the churning of a royal boat on the sea, that the few footsteps she does hear are Tiberias the Sixth and Elara marching around, bickering on deck, that the shadow prince, traitor prince, Maven, is there to hold her hand and make promises that they'll never lose each other and press a kiss to her lips. That's not how it is anymore. Tiberias is dead, Elara is dead, that old boat is probably long gone, and Maven will never speak to her in such a soft tone ever again. He will never be the traitor prince, instead passing that title aimlessly to his brother, and he will never be the shadow prince, because he is the flame. He will never kiss her again if she can help it.

But _he's_ promised that he'll never lose her millions of times. Billions of times. _Until we meet again._

Mare thought she'd never go back to him. And here she is.

"What are you waiting for?" she snaps at herself, the old fire in her only really being reignited by the fact that she's only angry at herself. Maven never speaks to her, watching her with ice-blue eyes that churn her stomach but no words spoken. They squash her temper with each word stolen from her, till she's hunkered down in her own little corner, yanking at the collar around her neck and wishing she had enough energy to move to hang herself with it. "What are you waiting for?" she says again, her voice vehement, her voice so angry.

What is she waiting for? Silent stone weighs around her neck, swallows her chest and her still beating heart, a collar Maven told her on the first day was 'custom made for her'. God, she hates him so much! But she needs him there, needs him like air and her still beating heart, which is to say she _needs_ them but would gladly throw them all to the dogs if she was given a chance. She yanks on her collar. It does nothing. It is futile. It's all futile.

What is she waiting for, holding her sparkless hands in front of her and scowling at her fingertips like they could light up without command? What is she waiting for? For Cal to swoop in and rescue her? For Shade and his honey-brown eyes, to teleport in and snatch her up? The first is just as impossible as the second. She digs her fingers in deep and watches herself bleed red.

* * *

"What are you waiting for?" Mare snarls, voice low and angry. She's half asking herself and she's half asking him. He tilts his head like a curious child, blinking those blue eyes of clear water, a small boy on a boat whose father never pays attention to him. His fingers wrap around the railing on the deck, and then he pulls and shatters the dream; he is a tall king of a nation, in a castle, whose father is dead, and he's holding her leash not the railing on the deck. Today is one of her better and worse days in one. She's never brought herself to this high of a boiling point directed at anyone but herself in a long time. But usually she sees him for what he is; the king, not the prince, not the Maven she thought she knew and the Maven that never existed.

"What do you mean?" he responds. Calm. Cool. Disgusting. How she _hates_ his voice. How she _loves_ his voice.

"Why haven't you killed me?" She tries to stop desperation from creeping into her tone, and it almost works, hovering just on the edge. "Or tortured me? Or used me for knowledge or... something?" Anger pricks at her throat. "Why are you just _leaving_ me here?"

Maven laughs, just a little bit, like she'd said something funny. "It's _isolation_ , Mare, the easiest form of torture." And of course, she'd known that earlier, when she cried for herself and the teasing wind just outside the pane of diamondglass. But her heart still jumps all the same. "Hadn't you figured it before?" he muses, and though she had, she doesn't give him the satisfaction of words. " _My_ Mare would have known. Perhaps this is changing you a little _too_ much."

She feels like he's baiting her, but Mare spits anyway, "You had no Mare, and I had no Maven, in case you forgot."

He hesitates, just for a split second, either at her words or at the fact that she still had enough spark in her to respond that way, but it's enough to gratify her. He recovers so quickly, though, resuming that easy smirk (smile is too genuine, but smirk is too snakelike; he hovers somewhere in between) and drumming fingers against his thigh. "Perhaps I should leave, then," he suggests.

 _Oh, shit_. It's the best way to shut her down after however-the-hell long of isolation, and he knows it. He's left her alone for however long it's been, only peering at her on sparsely thrown in visits and never speaking a word to satisfy and/or grate her ears, and though he obviously takes sick pleasure in watching her kneel in that stupid collar like a dog - like a bitch - she's not his top priority anymore. At least, not until she's completely broken, till she's hidden so far away she can't even see herself anymore, and she'll... well, Maven would happily find out. _And then what?_ whispers the tiny voice inside that sounds suspiciously like Elara did. _Will you let him do what he wants? There's a certain place not even he will go, but if he would, would the broken you let him?_

No, she wants to say, but she's not sure. At least she's protecting people. Cal, Bree, Tramy, Kilorn, Gisa, Mom, Dad, Cameron, Farley, every little Red girl and boy. Or is Maven still hunting, and she just doesn't know?

"Will I ever go outside?" she asks him, instead of answering.

He should call her out on avoiding the question. In a rare act of mercy, he doesn't, and instead looks to the ceiling as if considering. Then he turns his eyes to her. "Yes," he says, and he stays quiet long enough for her to feel an inkling of relief before continuing, "With me, when we leave for Summerton."

"Has it been that long?" falls from her lips.

Maven tilts his head at her. Curious and easy; she swallows thickly, and his hand absentmindedly grasps her knee. She wants to cry and scream and kick at his mere touch, but he is the king here, and he will never let go, no matter how much she protests. Besides, if she protests too much then he'll leave her, leave her for more months of screaming at nothing, and she wants someone there. Anyone. Even him, if it comes to it. "A few months," he answers. "It's winter. I never gave you your birthday present, but I didn't want to interrupt you." _Translation; he didn't want to ruin my solitary confinement,_ she thinks, expression dark. "Do you want it now?" he continues.

Mare's tempted to let out a sigh of relief that he can't hear her thoughts. Though he's a burner, his whisper-like tendency of seeming to know what she was thinking always puts her off. "Not particularly," she replies.

"Jokes on you," Maven says, his tone bored before lightening as he continues, "Happy birthday! You're talking to me, and can ask me whatever you want to." For a moment she's surprised, then she asks him if all answers will be truthful. His diligent "Of course!" is a sign that, no, not all answers are going to be truths. But they won't all be lies, either. _Okay, then. Make this challenging, o great King Calore._

"Can you tell me about Thomas?" she asks.

Maven gives her a look that practically screams 'bitch,' a look that she (to her great dismay; he's actually _scaring_ her?) fears for a moment, until he lets it go and sits back, sighing loudly and gesturing. "Fine," he says, heavy and strangely reluctant, "but only because it's your birthday."

"It's winter," she says, a smirk twitching her lip. "My birthday was a few months ago."

He glares at her, and the triumph was one of the best things she'd felt in a long time.

* * *

What is he waiting for?

Newbloods gathered, rounded up, trained as war machines and... then what? The Scarlet Guard goes on without her, and he does too, albeit a little reluctantly. But Mare, their untouchable martyr, Mare, their relatable partner, Mare, their confused girl who leaps back and forth between untouchable highs and unfeeling lows, was a backbone they needed. He hadn't expected her to go, especially not _willingly,_ and part of him feels responsible for it; like their fight (if you could call it that) was the thing responsible; like Kilorn shouting at him to "do something!", to "make her stop," lets the weight fall on him?

It wasn't, though. She'd forgiven him... right? And she'd apologized... right? Without words, a conversation lost in the winds?

But then what did that make the moments that came after, Maven and his quiet laughter, his cold eyes, his total, complete nothing - he is not a brother anymore. (And he never was. Cal constantly forgets that.) " _Are you a man of your word?_ " What did that mean? Probably something he wrote to her in his letters of bait and murder, whispered things that she shoved away with the rest of her junk and pulled out to torture herself again. He watched her then, though she thought he was asleep, and he thinks of it now; he thinks of it and the way Maven grabbed her, hand around her throat, hand around her chin, a threat like any touch he could squeeze or pull and kill her in an instant.

"She knelt," Farley says.

"Oh," is all he replies with. She never knelt before. Cal hates Maven. He wants to kill him. He wants to take back his throne with all the thunder it deserves. (He wants to sit down at a chessboard, Maven with the circles under his eyes and the quick smile on the other side, no crown on either of their heads, no corruption, no lies.)

"Want to see? It was broadcasted." Farley knows his answer before he gives it; that's the kind of person Farley is, though Shade's death has changed her more than he thought it would. His 'yes' is loud and sure, but he wants to say no. She beckons, one hand forward, and it's been weeks since they last heard of Mare, so he kind of has to see lest he be left in the dark for however long until she's broadcasted again. (It's to be months, Maven throwing her away in a room so her mind rots and she needs only him, but Cal doesn't know that.) He watches the footage and he wants to be sick, wants to be sick at seeing his brother's face, wants to be sick at seeing Mare wearing a collar like a dog, wants to be sick at seeing her kneel even though Farley already told him that she did.

"Oh," is all he says again. Ada, across the room, lowers her gaze to the floor. Kilorn's face is dark with anger. Even Cameron shifts on her feet, looking awkward. Mare tried to act like such a leader, and though he, a leader, never thought it really worked, perhaps it _did_. Or maybe because she was the 'original' newblood, the one who broke the silence first, the one who brought everyone together. In any case, the kneeling seems to effect everyone who sees it.

"I didn't think she would," snaps Kilorn, finally, breaking the strange silence. "I hate him so much."

There's unanimous murmuring of agreement. Cal makes a little indifferent noise. He hates his brother, too. Is it all on Maven that she kneels? What does it mean; forced obedience or willing obedience? The two parts of him (the one who still wants to defend Mavey, the old brother he's _sure_ is still there though he'd never admit it, and the part of him in the Guard, the part who sleeps by Mare's side in the Notch) bicker in the back of his head while the Reds in front of him complain about their hatred for Maven. He decides that it's a paradox, an impossible question with no real answer.

The footage loops again. Maven points at the ground, and Mare kneels.


	6. kuebiko

**me: *starts off the fic with a cal and mare chapter***

 **also me: *never fucking writes another cal and mare chapter until chapter SIX jfc me?* :))**

 **special thanks to Temperance V who suggested kuebiko! i'll probably write cal's pov when mare gives herself up someday, but i had another idea so... sorry about that. to those who wanted me to continue The Meantime: thanks! i probably won't extend it into a full fic (considering i have THREE rq fics already) but i might throw another one-shot or two in there.**

 **anyway! this is based off the alt ending to red queen/the alt beginning to glass sword. things occur a bit earlier because _ten years later and nobody in the present notices shit? that's bullshit ok._ anyway- r&r please!**

* * *

 _kuebiko_

 _n. a state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence, which force you to revise your image of what can happen in this world—mending the fences of your expectations, weeding out all unwelcome and invasive truths, cultivating the perennial good that's buried under the surface, and propping yourself up like an old scarecrow, who's bursting at the seams but powerless to do anything but stand there and watch._

-the dictionary of obscure sorrows.

* * *

The first time she expects nothing.

It's impossible, really. After all, her concern about the timeline is virtually nonexistent at this point, and the only thing stinging in her mind is Maven's aching, painful betrayal. She goes in with gritted teeth and trust issues. (The gritted teeth eventually stops. The trust issues don't.) Her limbs ache, and blood of both colors splatters her shirt. She's too numb to bother wondering who it's from, though the red could clearly only be hers. Cal, in front of her, stares at the ground. He looks at peace. Mare doesn't bother to wonder what's going on inside of his head.

Shade keeps his arm around her, his gaze flicking around the Undertrain, jumping left and right. It always lands on Cal eventually, who naturally everyone is suspicious of. Mare doesn't really care about him. He has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They both are trapped, and she's happy to feel sorry for herself instead of feeling sorry for him.

The world seems to pass in scenes, like acts of a play. The intermissions between occur, but they matter little to her, so her mind blocks them out. She only really awakens when they scurry onto the Blackrun, and she can feel her stomach lurch and jump and fall and twist. It makes her sick, but joy rises in her heart at the fact that she's feeling anything at all. The plane acts like a reset button, and for a while everything is... fine. Cal looks happier than he has in ages, she notes, but there's a certain hollowness inside his pupils that swallow up the warmth his eyes should give.

He glances at her. Their words - when exchanged - are short and clipped. When she speaks to him, she feels like she should leave to mourn something instead: the _something_ they had, the _something_ they lost. Maybe Cal mourns it too, the thing between them. Neither of them really desire to reignite it, that little flame, and after she starts up the plane she sits back with Shade. To make up for lost time.

Newbloods come and they go. She sees Wolliver hanging in Harbor Bay, and then Maven comes. In his wake is laughter and more red blood. Wolliver's, Farley's, Kilorn's, Shade's, hers. Blood on his hand when he grips her chin and clucks his tongue, blood on his lips when he smiles gently like he used to. Her blood, _her blood_ when he electrocutes her to near death. For a long time, all she sees is white, and if she strains enough against the surreal void she can hear the choking of a boy she never knew as he's hanged for a fate he couldn't control. Her nonexistent stomach seems to jump into her throat, and she wants to scream.

When she wakes, Kilorn is there. Cal peers over at her from where he sits, then moves inside the Blackrun. She wishes he'd come back. Inwardly, she hits herself.

The camp fills up with newbloods, but she's never felt so alone.

When they travel to Templyn, the sight makes her sick to her stomach. The little baby girl, so innocent and so fragile, is used as nothing more than a tool. She settles the blanket back over her, trying in vain to give her some comfort after death. _She can't feel,_ pipes up a little voice in her head, which she inwardly stomps to a pulp. She may dislike kids (she'd make an awful mother), but the sight of such a young, soft thing shattered to pieces stabs her heart.

Cal plays with the children, gentle smiles and touches for little things so fragile. When they scurry off - and they always do - he stares after them almost wistfully, and then looks at his bracelet. Cal is... Cal, whether that means the soft smiles he gives the kids or the hollow stare he points her way. He never looks at her, not really. Nobody ever looks at him besides the kids. _At least he has someone,_ Mare thinks bitterly. The only people who aren't so scared are Shade and Kilorn, but Kilorn is always out hunting and Shade... does whatever Shade does. She doesn't know. She wants to.

Cameron strides around the place like she owns it, thinks Mare. She ignores the fact that she only thinks this because she's dug herself into a hole so low even her high horse can't get her out. At least she's feeling something besides disappointment and anger. All they've been getting done is a whole lot of nothing, because the only people who can control their powers at all - Cal, herself, and Shade - refuse to work together. Or she and Cal refuse to even look at each other while Shade is off being Shade (she and Shade could work together, or at least, she wants to believe so). Whichever.

* * *

A year passes. More newbloods die, blood staining everyone's hands. Maven turns eighteen. He and Elara make a big deal of it, though his kingship should remain ' _impersonal_ ', as Cal puts it. "Happy birthday," she whispers to the boy who never existed.

Eventually - after some long, long time - Mare slips into Cal's room. She can't say why she does it, and all reasoning she could've possibly had slips away the moment they make eye contact. She gets that feeling in her stomach, the one of something lost, but she inhales deeply and meets his eyes again, more steady. He slips shut the book he was reading, shoving it away before she can see what it is, and peers up at her. There's something both angry and curious in him, but she's glad she sees him feeling anything at all. They wait, wishing for the other to make the first move.

"Come to visit me?" Cal finally snaps. For a brief moment, she's joyful. Joyful at his voice, joyful at the fact that he's speaking to her like she actually exists and matters for once.

But his bitter tone wins again, and she lets out a low, tired sigh. "Took me a while, didn't it?"

He raises an eyebrow at her tone: almost defeated, but she has a feeling that he knows she's not the type of person to sit back and give up. "That's not like you," he says, and confirms her thoughts. It's half a blow to her all the same, though, so she purses her lips and crosses her arms.

"I've changed. We all have," Mare replies, sounding exhausted. He has too, in not just the obvious ways but something deeper and more subtle - the animalistic tinge in the way he moves and speaks, how he sometimes stares off into space. It's a bit worrying, really, though Mare knows considering _her_ situation it's awfully ironic to think that.

He sighs in disappointment, like he expected her to put up more of a fight. "Come in, then," he says gruffly. She accepts his offer, flitting away from the doorway and into his room. For some reason she can't bring her eyes to his, leaning against a crate put against the wall. She lets her shoulders slump, crossing one leg over the other, anything to make herself seem small. He notices, eyes clinging to her, and though she has a feeling that it's because he's assessing her position it stirs a strange warmth inside of her anyway. (Maybe that... _thing_ between them isn't completely lost.) "Why have you _finally_ ended up here?" continues Cal (with an emphasis on finally that's unlike him), looking - _really_ looking - into her eyes for the first time in a long, long time.

"...Where else is there to go?" she asks, her tone sullen. This isn't really how she wanted it to go, but then, she had no plan anyway - either that or she forgot it the minute she stepped onto the threshold. Still, they both know her words are true: they're alone in a crowded room, the two of them, and maybe she should be doing something useful for once or he should be playing with the kids, but right now... right now neither of them want to.

"Yeah," he agrees flatly, his voice so tired. Mare knows Cal isn't really talking about her when he's talking about being trapped. _At least he's told me why he hasn't left, then_ , she thinks.

She takes another step towards him. It's like she's approaching a predator, but Cal eyes her warily as if he's the prey. "Sorry," she mutters, grinding it out between gritted teeth. It's an apology for everything, no matter its reluctance.

He blinks at her. He doesn't give any sign that he knows what the apology is for; he doesn't even give a sign that he accepts it. "Don't be a stranger," he says, giving her a sharp smile that shocks her in its lack of familiarity. She mutters something under her breath about him being _Silver to the core_ , but forces her legs to move until she ends up beside his bed. The proximity reignites that little flame in her - nothing but an ember, merely a flicker, but there enough. Cal straightens, setting down the book for a change, and _maybe it's affecting him, too,_ a hopeful part of her whispers.

"How are you, Cal?" Mare wonders.

He laughs, short and cruel. "Awful."

Aren't they all.

* * *

She doesn't know how it happens, but as the end of the war's second year ticks ever closer, the Blackrun comes down. She wants to protest that it isn't her fault as Cal sends a scathing look her way, but the creaking and groaning of the jet tearing itself apart silences everyone. Her heart pounds in her throat, and with a final long creak and a _snap!_ the jet rips itself into huge metal chunks. Cameron yelps, losing her footing on the metal, and then Mare's suspicions are further assured by the metal around them twisting and elongating, forming a cage around their falling bodies. She wants to scream, but she can't get it out of her throat, and so she swallows, grabs the nearest thing to her, and twists to stare at the sky as it recedes and nausea builds. She's always been a coward.

She realizes belatedly that the thing she's holding is Cal's arm. He pulls it back and rests his hand in hers, but when she casts a glance at him, he's staring at the ground. _Is it bravery, or is it just acceptance?_ she wonders as the cage snaps into place overhead, crossing out her perfect view of the receding sky with bangs and clattering. She and Cal won't look at each other, and she twists, looking for something in the sky to give her hope. She doesn't _want_ to die - not here, not now, not with her brother injured because he didn't want Ptolemus Samos to kill her. How will he feel, she thinks, when he figures out that he only slightly pushed back his sister's death?

There is no peace. This is not Queenstrial.

When they end up uninjured on the ground, Mare is surprised, but then she sees Maven. The shock drains out of her.

The metal bars snake up their legs; Kilorn, Cameron. _Cal_. They leave her to scramble forwards to where Maven stands at the opposite end of the cage. He smiles at her, a charming smile, a sweet smile, and his teeth gleam. When he speaks, his voice is so soft, so gentle. She wants to cry when she hears it. "I heard from a little birdie," he says, his voice a lover's whisper, "that your birthday is coming up soon. I thought I should get you a present."

This is far too tame for Maven. He is the same boy who killed a baby in cold blood: this is not his present. It couldn't be, surely. "Bastard," she hisses. He laughs, full and loud compared to his voice, and she cringes.

"You shouldn't be saying those things," he tells her, practically pressing himself against the outside of the cage just so he can peer down at her more easily. There's a silencer there - must be an Arven, Maven wouldn't accept anything less - and the cold emptiness presses down, down, _down_ , and she falls to her knees in front of him. "I hold the key, Mare," he whispers, and he smiles at her pained glance behind her. To the group, which is still struggling against their metal bonds.

Mare licks her lips and when she faces Maven again, her voice is raspy but doesn't tremble. "Let them go," she demands. She makes to stand, but quick as her own lightning, the metal snakes snatch up around her arms, winding and twisting and yanking her back to her knees. She bares her teeth, and the emptiness threatens to swallow her whole.

"Haven't you learned anything?" he wonders instead. He sounds genuinely interested. She wants to scream as he waves his hand, and the bars part, just enough for him to reach out and grasp her the side of her face. She yelps, and he lets his fingers trail along her cheek, gentle strokes until he reaches - and grabs - her chin. A low hiss of disgust from her only makes him laugh.

There's only one option here. She knows it, he knows it, she doesn't doubt those behind her might know too. And he knows that she has no _real_ reason to do it, too. Kilorn has been drifting away, Ada is fearful, Cameron could care less, and Cal is... Cal. She just has so much blood on her hands that she'd do anything to stop herself from getting any more stained there. She'd feel too guilty if she let them die, because Maven would let her live, and the others would scorn her for it. Just as they'd scorned her for Shade's death. "Guilty," she snarls, and though the bonds are still holding the back of her arms, her forearm is free. She grabs his elbow.

She still feels so weak. He smiles wider.

* * *

A full _year_ in that hellhole.

Slowly, the word 'year' begins to mean less and less. The time with Maven goes far too fast when she has peace and excruciatingly slow when she's stuck with him. The collar, she realizes quickly, is bedecked with silent stone as much as jewels. Maven caresses her with gentle touches and gentle lips on her cheek and on her neck and on _her_ lips. Still, he never goes further, content with his own pleasure and her disgust. No matter how much she despises his mouth on her, she clings to him whenever he's there, because he isolates her from everyone else, keeps her as his and his alone. He drives her insane.

He knows what he's doing; she can tell with the way he smiles at her. _Smug bastard._ Her mouth twists at the thought of him.

Her only interactions with the court are in sparse - _very_ sparse - luncheons. Once every two months, if she's lucky. Otherwise, meals are slipped to her through her door and she's left to stare out the window, melancholy. In those times, Maven's hungry touches and hungry lips are her only company. Every time, she waits a minute or two so her weakness isn't seen or heard, and then hurls everything in her stomach up.

For her nineteenth birthday while trapped inside that misery, Maven gloats and finally takes her out of the room for a long time. She's on a leash, pulled along to Maven's whim, and the Silvers gawk at her in disgust when they pass. The Reds refuse to look. Still, the wind is fresh on her skin, and she'll let Maven drag her along if only to let her feel the outside again.

She is tired and the lack of fresh air makes her skin crawl. There is an unholy silence, and she knows something's coming.

When the door busts open, she instinctively bows her head.

* * *

The Guard rescuing her is the only exciting thing that happens when Mare's nineteen. Cal isn't among those who did it. She tries to play it off, to not let it bother her, and focuses on what they have to say. Cameron did it, they inform her, _suffocating_ most of the guards on the way to her room and leaving in relative silence. All the while, Harrick's illusions cloaked them, and Nanny took the form of Maven. Just in case. Mare smiles the widest she has this since the whole revolution began, and when everyone else has left, she embraces Shade and cries quietly. He strokes her hair softly, murmuring gently into her ear, and after a while her tears fade and they promise silently to never speak of it again.

Shade seems to be the only one who can touch her. Quickly people learn not to hug her; she stiffens and jerks away most of the time. They don't ask her about what happened there, and maybe what they assume is worse than what actually happened, but her mind has slammed a wall down on half the memories and she can't bring herself to peek into the cracks.

She slips into Cal's room again. She asks him why he didn't come to help her.

He pales, but answers evasively still. "I couldn't." He pulls at his collar, but manages to meet her gaze anyway.

"Why not?" Her voice comes out flat, like a statement, not a question.

"I'm sorry, Mare, I just..." Cal's eyes finally dart away. He doesn't _want_ to answer, and it nags at her. What could be so bad that he doesn't want to tell her? "I couldn't," he finishes weakly, staring at his bracelets. In a rare occasion where it doesn't fail on her, her mind clicks and makes the connection - Maven, certainly. Cal had been skillfully avoiding him for a long time, and no matter what, Cal wouldn't really want to face his brother. Even if she was in danger, Cal would probably stay away from Maven if he could. Her mouth twists bitterly. (He doesn't care that much about her, anyway.)

She can't muster up sympathy for him, and so she intones, "It's fine, Cal," and leaves to spend time with her family.

Cal bites his lip, but he doesn't stare after her. Not even when she looks back.

* * *

It happens on her twentieth birthday. Her family makes it a big deal even though her previous birthdays passed without respite, and many of the Newbloods they've rescued end up attending. Ada, all smiles and pleasantries; Nanny, who's happy to dote on pretty much anyone who will let her; little Luther, who is now eleven and controls his powers a lot better, so cheerful; Lory, who usually didn't like loud things due to her amplified senses, and so many more that it shocks her. Nobody really brings presents, but they wish her a happy birthday and that's fine enough. It's unusual having such a happy atmosphere when it's mostly so sad with the Guard, but she's content. Content. It's a nice feeling, she thinks.

Kilorn smiles at her toothily; the widest she'd seen him smile in a while. It stirs a warm feeling in her chest, and she smiles back at him, for real this time. He laughs with joy, and for a second their hands tangle together, their smiles and joined limbs the echoes of a future that could never exist, the green-eyed children with her quick feet making one last holler before the Silver tide swipes them away. And then their hands slip away, along with that future, Kilorn alerted by a shout from the other side of the room. He smiles at her again, and she feels briefly like something's _different_ before he pulls away from her. (The feeling goes with him.)

She exhales gently, and despite the warmth something feels like it's crushing in on her, so she pulls out of the room and leans against the wall outside. The smile refuses to leave her face, the happiness warming her despite the hallway's chill.

"Oh," Cal says, and the smile and the warmth slip from her face. "I thought that I - heard something. I didn't realize that you had time for... celebrations." His voice takes a bitter tinge. Her mouth twists.

"We really _don't_ , but I guess it's the fact that everyone's morale has been... low." Mare brushes a strand of hair from her face. Her dark skin flushes the faintest of pinks; they both know that it's a stupid excuse.

Cementing this, Cal puts his hand to his mouth and laughs slightly, not even trying to hide it; the hand is only instinctive court training. "You aren't even trying," he says wearily.

The continued use of the word _you_ instead of _we_ doesn't go unnoticed, and she lets herself sneer at him. "You aren't either, Cal," she snaps. He does nothing but _mope;_ everybody knows it. "It's a shame, too, but you wouldn't notice." He raises an eyebrow, and she swallows back the disappointment at the little jab not hitting its mark. Cal stares at her for a long moment, eyebrow still quirked, before he looses a breath and steps back, looking behind her at something she can't see.

"Maven turns 20 in December, you know," he says. His tone is wistful, like they're just normal brothers and Cal doesn't know what to get him for his birthday, and that is what sparks the fear in her - she doesn't _want_ to talk about Maven, not right now, not with Cal. And not while Cal is bitter and jaded, not while he looks at her like every little thing that's gone wrong in his life is her fault. _But it is, it is your fault,_ a soft voice in the back of her head that sounds suspiciously like Maven whispers.

"I don't - don't want to talk about him," she stutters.

Cal laughs, and his voice is strained. "Of course you wouldn't." He smiles wryly and looks somewhere above her head. "I just... I wish we hadn't met, Mare. You know?" He inclines his head, but his bronze gaze does not meet hers. Mare's thankful, because the words cut deep without him looking at her; it's not unreasonable, and his life would surely be much better had they never met, but... but a tiny part of her still longs to hold him in her arms, to press her lips to his, and that part of her is sliced in half and demolished and crushed by his words.

She doesn't cry, and her voice doesn't even tremble when she says, "That's a rather rude thing to tell me on my birthday," but she wants to let herself go. She wants to so badly. Isn't he the only one who's not scared of her? Isn't he the only one who's supposed to care for her at all? _Why this, why now_?

"You ruined him, Mare," he whispers, and her heart stops. "If _you_ just hadn't come into the picture, I could've... I could've done something!" He rakes a hand through his hair, and when his eyes flicker to hers, she yanks her gaze away from him. "You ruined him," he seethes, and he takes a step closer to her. Fear ignites in her bones, but she refuses to step away, refuses to let herself shake or tremble at his gaze.

"I didn't," she snaps. "It wasn't _my_ fault! He was... he was broken long before I came to the palace." But he strikes at one of her deepest, most buried fear, the one that came to her when she was trembling in Whitefire's beautiful walls, Maven's collar around her neck and his lips against her skin, the touches making her want to curl up and die, his scolding making her wonder _did I do this, did I make him like this?_ And now, with Cal in front of her, throwing the same accusations, she wants to scream again and again. Somehow she doesn't.

"He had problems, but you... if you hadn't come along, I could have _fixed_ him!" His voice rises with anger. Mare blinks in shock. _Fixed_ \- Cal should know better than saying a word like that. Maven was broken, but he hadn't needed to be _fixed_! Saved, maybe. But not fixed. She opens her mouth to respond, but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand. "I just... I just..."

He shakes his head, and he shrinks back into himself, making his way down the hall and leaning at its end, as if he can't be bothered to move any farther. For a moment there's silence, and then she steps after him, for some reason desperate to repair the damage. Mare knows she'll never take away the bitterness in him, like she could never possibly remove the hatred in Maven's heart, but his words had cut her deep. She feels some strange obligation, and lifts her hand to his shoulder.

She doesn't expect the punch to the stomach.

He knocks the wind out of her, and she staggers back, unable to yell. Her fingers spark on instinct, lighting up in a horrible display, and the betrayal hits her like a slap. Not the cold, cool fear of Maven's turning - no, she knew this was coming, knew it would be for a while. But that doesn't make it hurt any less. His eyes are haunted, and his fists alight in flame. She swallows, and she knows that there's no way out of this; that's why she lets both of her hands light up, lets the lightning snake around her arms. But she won't make the first move.

Cal shakes his head, eyes clouded with rage, and charges.

She pauses, and then quickly, she dodges his swing, ducking and rolling away just as it comes. He's _hindered_ , she realizes - hindered by his own emotions. She swings, not to punch but to send an electric whip. Cal mistakes it, staggering away from the punch and then hit by the rebound. She yells behind her, calling for Shade, hoping to hell he'll hear her - it's not too loud in there, after all. Cal lunges at her again, and obediently she dodges, letting herself fall into a deadly game of cat and mouse. But she's not the predator: not when he's around.

Shade flings open the door just as Cal kicks her in the stomach, sending her flying.

* * *

"Mare, listen," Shade tells her. He is gentle and calm and soft. "If you can't do it, I will."

Mare stiffens, brown eyes widening as she stares down. "I _can_ do it," she snaps, but her voice trembles, shaking at the prospect. "I just... I just don't think we need to." She tries to keep her tone light. Judging by the look Shade gives her, she isn't doing a very good job. She gets it, though. She hears the straining in her voice.

"Mare," Shade whispers, setting a hand on her shoulder to calm her. She tenses under his fingers, but he ignores it. "We need to. He's - he's _willing_ to betray us, and he doesn't care about you anymore either. He's got no reason to stay, and he'll break out of inprisonment _again_ soon. If what he said was true..."

Tears well in her eyes. She swallows her cries back and blinks them away.

"It's okay to cry," he mutters, squeezing her arm, brotherly 'till the end. "You don't have to do this."

But the little lightning girl shakes her head, and she's glad Cal's eyes are closed as she stabs him through the heart.


End file.
